<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>the art of staying alive with a stab wound by bstarship</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24779680">the art of staying alive with a stab wound</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship'>bstarship</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Injury, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Peter Parker is a Mess, Tony Stark Has A Heart, hey peter how about not almost dying for once</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 11:36:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,769</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24779680</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bstarship/pseuds/bstarship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s no one around him. No one to stop and wonder why the hell Spider-Man just screamed out a handful of swears and then proceeded to walk down the sidewalk as if nothing happened. Peter feels his webbing mold against his skin, chemicals burning and foaming as they mix with his blood until they eventually settle. He doesn’t care if he might’ve poisoned himself—the wound is covered, and he wants to go home.</p><p>And then he sees it. The almighty—a beacon glowing in the distance. A temple for the weary and the slightly stoned. A symbol of hope, and a glimmering light at the end of the foggy tunnel. A 7-Eleven.</p><p>There are two things on Peter’s mind now: pain and his craving for Airhead Extremes.</p><p>And then Karen’s voice startles him. “Incoming call from Tony Stark.”<br/>or</p><p>Peter is too stubborn to ask for help after suffering a potentially fatal stab wound. But it's fine. He's fine. Probably.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Karen (Spider-Man: Homecoming) &amp; Peter Parker, Ned Leeds &amp; Peter Parker, Peter Parker &amp; Tony Stark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>424</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>ellie marvel fics - read</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the art of staying alive with a stab wound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi it's been a while n i don't quite feel in ~the groove~ with my writing yet but hopefully this will do</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Peter doesn’t realize how much he’s bleeding until he sets his hand down on the pavement. A deep red print stares back up at him, painted by a palm that has been clutching his torso for dear life. It stings like hell, but he doesn’t realize it’s that bad until he sees the blood.</p><p>He props himself up against a dumpster in an alley, right next to a graffiti tag that reads “yungblood” along with a dent the size of his head. The past few minutes warble around in his brain, and while he tries to remember the event that caused this, the amount of pain in his body overwhelms him. He isn’t thinking about the past, not even the future—he can hardly think at all.</p><p>
  <em>Get yourself together, Parker. It’s fine. You’re fine.</em>
</p><p>Peter grinds his teeth tightly together. The muscles in his face are taut as he breathes out through his nose. He can feel the rise and fall of his chest keep up with the rapid pace of his heart. Pain is something he should have outgrown by now, he thinks. Pain is something he knows too well.</p><p>“K-Karen,” he breathes out, closing his eyes in hopes of dreaming it all away, “I need you to—to scan it. Turn on night vision. <em>Something</em>. I-I need to know what it is.”</p><p><em>“Peter, you appear to have a deep incision right above your left hip,” </em>his AI says to him. <em>“The wound has most likely been exposed to a lot of harsh bacteria. I recommend you find medical help as soon as possible. Would you like me to alert your Aunt May?”</em></p><p>“No!” Peter exclaims. His body flinches with the sudden outburst, and heat spreads up to his chest. “No, no, please. Don’t call her. Don’t call anybody. N-not even—not even Mister Stark. Especially not Mister Stark.”</p><p>
  <em>“The nearest Emergency Room is thirteen blocks away.”</em>
</p><p>He doesn’t like her suggestions, but she’s right—he needs a hospital. He most likely needs stitches and medication, but he can’t stomach the thought. His pride feels more important than a possibly-fatal wound right above his hipbone.</p><p>“It’s fine,” he murmurs, resting his shoulders back against the slimy dumpster. “All s’fine. I just gotta—gotta stand up. Gotta go home.”</p><p>His joints creak as he lifts himself slowly, hands reaching out for any surface they can find while the pain sizzles hot in his torso. No matter how measured his actions are, his blood pressure is too low, and he is bound to keel over if he takes another step.</p><p><em>It’s fine</em>, he keeps telling himself, <em>I’m fine. Just gotta get home.</em></p><p>Once Peter is completely stood up on his feet, he feels a bit better. He feels as though he can freely move without too much pain—maybe the wound isn’t as deep as he thought. But the blood is still on his hands, and it’s still fresh. He is still in critical condition whether or not he wants to believe it.</p><p>He takes a few deep breaths—as deep as they can be—and hobbles out of the alleyway. The colors of the night spin around him for a few moments as he gains his composure.</p><p><em>“I will set a course for an ER near you, Peter,” </em>says his AI. <em>“Your vitals are starting to dip.”</em></p><p>“No, no—” Peter waves an arm around while keeping one hand firm on his side. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, Karen. I got this figured out. I don’t—I don’t wanna go to the hospital. Don’t like hospitals. Creepy a-and mean. People are mean.”</p><p>
  <em>“You will need to find a way to stop the bleeding.”</em>
</p><p>Easy. Peter had taken a sewing class back at his old school. It’s his only B grade ever, but he still learned a few things nevertheless. And he’s confident that May has a sewing kit or two.</p><p>“Karen?” Peter asks as he starts down the block. He keeps his gaze straight ahead; he’s scared that he might look back and find drops of blood trailing behind him. The suit calls enough attention to himself as it is. “How toxic is my webbing?”</p><p><em>“A non-lethal dosage would be less than four fluid ounces,”</em> she says. <em>“It would last in your bloodstream for approximately twenty-four hours, and it may cause discomfort or mild to severe reactions. It won’t be pretty.”</em></p><p>“What are you saying, Karen? You don’t think I’m pretty?”</p><p>
  <em>“Would you like the truth?”</em>
</p><p>Peter pauses for a moment. “Is that a joke?”</p><p>
  <em>“You’re not the only one who is funny.”</em>
</p><p>He smiles weakly, and with one hand on his side, he tries to stand up straight. Heat splinters throughout his skin. A long, deep breath later, he aims his wrist down toward the open wound and squeezes his eyes tight.</p><p>There’s no one around him. No one to stop and wonder why the hell Spider-Man just screamed out a handful of swears and then proceeded to walk down the sidewalk as if nothing happened. Peter feels his webbing mold against his skin, chemicals burning and foaming as they mix with his blood until they eventually settle. He doesn’t care if he might’ve poisoned himself—the wound is covered, and he wants to go <em>home</em>.</p><p>And then he sees it. The almighty—a beacon glowing in the distance. A temple for the weary and the slightly stoned. A symbol of hope, and a glimmering light at the end of the foggy tunnel. A 7-Eleven.</p><p>There are two things on Peter’s mind now: pain and his craving for Airhead Extremes.</p><p>And then Karen’s voice startles him. <em>“Incoming call from Tony Stark.”</em></p><p>“No, no, Karen—”</p><p>“‘Ello, Pete, you got a sec?” asks Tony, tone calm and collected as the soundwaves spike through Peter’s heads-up display. A goofy picture of the man sits above in a small square. “I’ve got a few things I wanna run by ya. Are you in the suit?”</p><p>Peter swallows and, through a wet gasp, replies, “yeah, yeah. Sorry. In the middle of swinging. Really outta breath.”</p><p>Tony hums. “Sure. Okay. Anyway, I was in the shower this morning and I thought—y’know, red and blue is so 2002. Black and gold is where it’s at. Now, I know what you’re thinking. <em>But, Mister Stark, how will anyone know it’s Spider-Man without the red and blue? </em>Well, kid, that’s ridiculous. You can backflip. But, as I was saying—”</p><p>As Tony speaks, Peter follows the glow of the pulsating 7-Eleven sign in the distance. He hobbles and sways, and by this point, he’s numb to the pain. Nevertheless, he feels wrong. His head feels unattached, like it rolled off toward Yonkers or hoped on a ferry to Hoboken. Every piece of his body has fallen numb. Despite the closing-in vignette of his vision, he’s still awake, and that’s all that matters.</p><p>“I took what you said into consideration,” Tony continues.</p><p>Peter thinks for a moment. He thinks about anything he said to his aunt or his friends in the past twenty-four hours, but he comes up with nothing. He can’t remember anything.</p><p>“What’d I say?” he asks.</p><p>“Well,” Tony says, and his voice is loud in Peter’s ear, “spandex is out. You said it yourself—it’s tight and itchy and it just isn’t rational. Plus, your suit reeks of baby powder. You recently mentioned that you’ve been stressed out with school and that your senses have been whacked out as of late. So, I’m here’s what I’m talking about—an all-metal suit with magnetically polarized armor plating. Black-n-gold. How’s that sound?”</p><p>Peter tries to focus on his breathing in order to make it seem even. Any moment of pure pain has to be redirected into his closed fists instead of an audible reaction. And he can’t—for the life of him—pay attention to anything Tony is saying.</p><p>“Mhm, yeah,” Peter says, “sounds good. Really good. Hey, Mister Stark, I gotta—”</p><p>“Ah—I’m not done,” the man interjects.</p><p>Peter scrunches his nose as he eyes the 7-Eleven again. It’s so close yet feels so far, and for the first time, he wants nothing more than for Tony to stop caring about him for <em>once</em>. He can’t focus on anything. He doesn’t feel like this is real.</p><p>“There’s another thing that I’m working on,” Tony carries on casually, “and I think you’ll like it. You sitting down?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Good,” he says. "High-discharge capacitors that are capable of temporarily directing electricity through attachable gauntlets—or built-in, whichever you prefer, but they’re kind of heavy. I figured I’d just scrap any past designs and completely rework and integrate an electric circuit that’s fully capable of—”</p><p>“This all sounds really great, Mister Stark,” Peter huffs out, squinting and blinking rapidly as the convenience store sign flickers, “but I’m kinda in the middle of something.”</p><p>Tony pauses for a moment. “Tired of me already, huh? Whatcha doin’ out there anyway? Handing out sandwiches to bad guys?”</p><p>“No, I—it doesn’t matter, really. Dodging punches. Totally winning.”</p><p>“Uh-huh. Okay. You wore me down,” Tony says. “I’ll let you go. But keep coming up with ideas, ‘kay? I’m already loading myself with plans, but you gotta have something to do when you’re up here next. Keep trucking. See ya.”</p><p>Peter nods to himself. “Yeah. Thanks. Bye, Mister Stark.”</p><p>When the call drops, Peter lets out a sigh of relief. He can practically see the numbers in his head as his blood pressure drops, but he counts each step he takes to distract himself otherwise. Twenty more feet and he’ll be in a land of Doritos and Tastycakes. He can practically taste the sugary icing melt on his tongue, and it’s a nice sensation to imagine in comparison to the sliced muscles in his torso. The neon 7-Eleven sign winks at him as he leans over the door handle, pulling it back to reveal a whole new world.</p><p>Peter grips his side a little harder and walks down an aisle filled with candy and chips. A man next to a slushie machine stares at him with wide eyes, and it dawns on Peter that he isn’t <em>just </em>Peter right now. He’s still in his suit. He never forgot, of course, but his brain feels like it has taken a deep dive in the Hudson—he barely has enough conscience to remember his true identity, let alone his superhero one.</p><p>The webbing covering his wound still stings. The blood has dried on his gloves, and the dark liquid no longer drips down his thigh, but he can’t imagine it clotting the way it’s supposed to with chemicals dancing around it. To forget about it, he picks out Airheads, a Snickers bar, and Cool Ranch Doritos to add a bit of savory into the mix. As he makes his way toward the dumbfounded guy at the register, he rounds back down an aisle with antiseptic and isopropyl alcohol.</p><p>If he can fend off infection, then he might be able to handle this himself.</p><p>“$8.62,” the guy tells him, eyebrows furrowing in order to keep his questions at bay.</p><p>Peter’s hands shake as he sets a handful of cash on the counter. “K-keep the change,” he mutters, adjusting the in-seam pocket—that Tony kindly added—where he keeps extra cash in case of emergencies. Unluckily for him, he just blew it all.</p><p>He grips the plastic bag with a tight fist before inhaling sharply. The bright colors and neon lights of the convenience store surround him and swallow him up, and he almost believes he’ll die from sudden nausea as opposed to the open wound on his torso. The world spins faster than his brain can handle. Peter is lucky he can make it out of the store before keeling over. Once he feels the cool air of the night, he lifts his mask and spits up what is left in his stomach.</p><p>His stomach clenches and his muscles tighten, and the amount of pain radiating through him is enough to blackout his vision. He rests against the side of the building, hoping for help yet hoping that no one heard him. If he can make it home without passing out, it will be a miracle.</p><p>“Karen?” Peter croaks out, wincing at the feeling of breeze touching his exposed skin. “Is there an auto-pilot in this thing?”</p><p><em>“Unfortunately, the suit is only designed for manual control,” </em>his AI tells him. <em>“Peter, your blood pressure has dropped exponentially, and your heart rate has been steadily above a hundred beats per minute for thirty minutes now. I recommend you seek immediate medical attention.”</em></p><p>“I-I know,” he sputters and sighs. “I know. Just get me home. Please.”</p><p>Peter hears his voice repeat over in his head. It sounds pathetic and scared—he realizes what could come from a situation like this, but he doesn’t want to think about it. He can’t afford to panic anymore, not when his vitals are seconds away from alerting the one person he doesn’t want worrying about him.</p><p>(Because when Mister Stark worries, it’s more like a father’s way of caring—a lot of frustration to cover up the fact that he really does care and, additionally, a heavy set frown that tries to hide the guilt that is furiously eating him up. It’s a lot for Peter to handle.)</p><p>Peter’s heads-up display lights up with a map leading him home. If walking down two blocks to a 7-Eleven was hard, then he needs a lot of luck to get from Pomonok to Flushing without dying.</p><p>He starts off strong, not missing a single step while he thinks about sewing up his wound with a mouthful of Airhead Extremes. In fact, he attempts to keep all of his thoughts from going dark, and still, the pain seems to burn a little more each time.</p><p>It’s fine for a while. He feels woozy—he feels drugged, but he’s still on his feet. He’s still walking with a purpose, desperate to feel normal again and desperate for a snack. He’s determined.</p><p>And then Ned’s caller ID pops up in the HUD.</p><p>“<em>Ma</em>, I <em>know—</em>I’m talking to Peter now, okay, I can’t—” There’s a small sigh on the other end, and then a quiet, “hey, Peter. Are you busy?”</p><p>Peter clenches his jaw and thinks about the many ways he could lie or tell the truth. “I’m great,” he tells his friend instead, voice rising an octave. “Just out bein’ Spider-Man. You know. Hero stuff.”</p><p>“Oh, did you meet any cool bad guys tonight?” Ned asks with excitement. “Sorry, I should rephrase that. Did you catch any scary criminals tonight? Ma says there was a robbery at Marino’s—did you go there?”</p><p>“I—uh—” The memories of Peter’s night are foggy. He hardly knows the time, but he still remembers the sensation of the knife cutting through his skin. It was one guy, <em>one stupid guy</em>, and yet Peter can’t differentiate one memory from the next. “Don’t think so,” he says. “Not a—not a good night. Not a lot of activity. Hey, do you know what time it is?”</p><p>“Yeah, it’s like six o’clock, I think,” Ned replies. “Oh, I almost forgot—are you free Friday night? That new Kong movie came out last week, and I really wanna see it, but the only way Ma will allow me to drive us is if she comes too. She gets motion sick really easily so we’ll probably have to sit at the end of the row.”</p><p>Peter doesn’t even know what day it is. His own web formula courses through his veins, and the majority of his current pain stems from the chemicals sizzling down his wound. He can’t think ahead right now, not when he’s less than confident he’ll even survive.</p><p>“Y-yeah, dude, I’m down,” he mutters, screwing his eyes tight. He does his best to even out his increasingly panicked breaths. <em>You’re not gonna die, Peter, you’re not gonna die. </em>“Can I call you back late, though? Kinda—kinda in the middle of—”</p><p>“Oh, my God, are you fighting another mutant?”</p><p>“No, Ned.” Peter cracks a smile.</p><p>“Cos’ that would be so cool,” Ned says. “Like a lizard mutant, o-or—wait, what if—”</p><p>“<em>Ned</em>.”</p><p>His friend continues to ramble until he eventually mumbles out, “sorry, sorry. You’re probably beating up an army of skeletons or something. Holy shit, can you imagine—”</p><p>Peter manages a few quiet laughs. Anything further and he risks tearing the healing muscle all over again. “Yeah, dude, that’d be awesome. I gotta go though, man.”</p><p>“<em>Fine</em>, you can go,” Ned sighs out. “Just leave me, your forgotten guy-in-the-chair, to be all by himself, trapped in his room with nothing to do while his best friend is out saving lives.”</p><p>Peter’s smile comes easier now. “Bye, Ned.”</p><p>Ned finishes his pity party with a giggle and says, “okay, bye,” before ending the call.</p><p> </p><p>After that, Peter isn’t sure how, but he makes it back home in one piece. While talking with Ned has eased some stress, he isn’t comforted by the fact that there’s still an open wound left in his side. His blood is still on his hands, dried up between his fingers like it was always supposed to be there. His vitals blink bright red in his peripherals, yet his vision tunnels, and all he can do is trust that he’s crawling through the window of his bedroom and not Miss Kim’s from upstairs.</p><p>“<em>Shit</em>.” Peter grimaces as hot pain squeezes through his torso. His feet meet the carpeted floor of his room a moment later, and he fights the urge to sink into his bed and fall fast asleep.</p><p>
  <em>“Peter, your blood pressure—”</em>
</p><p>“I know,” he snaps at Karen. He stumbles through his room, hands darting for any available surface to hold onto, meanwhile, the plastic bag full of candy rubs against his wrist. “I-I think May has—has a sewing kit in the bathroom. I just gotta get—”</p><p>He falls against the doorframe with a groan, eyesight darkening for a brief moment while the weight of his head significantly lessens. His eyes roll back, but he catches himself, tilting his head forward so he can stay awake. Once he feels the sink beneath his hands, his heart rate spikes.</p><p>
  <em>It’s killing him. He’s dying, and he’s alone.</em>
</p><p>Peter tears his mask off, breathes in deep, and scours the linen closet for May’s old sewing materials. Lotions, nail polish, and other toiletry items fly off of the shelves as his desperation grows. He can’t hold in his panic any longer. Tears flow down his cheeks before he can stop them, and he feels unclean. He feels <em>dirty. </em>He’s covered in his own blood.</p><p>His fingers tremble as they pry open the small box of needles and thread. He’s not only desperate, but he’s frantic. He’s alone and trying to keep himself alive.</p><p>The webbing has almost entirely dissolved around his skin, but he’s certain that most of it has entered his bloodstream by now. As he dabs the wound clean with a bloodied washcloth, Peter’s breathing begins to slow. He hasn’t seen it—the wound. Under the harsh fluorescent lighting, he can see everything. His pale, flushed skin coated in pink stains and sweat. The reflection of his sunken eyes, wide, red-rimmed, and watery with dried tears underneath. And he sees the wound, the dark, scary wound in his side, surrounded by his blood that has long since dried. But it’s all there. It’s all terrifying.</p><p>Peter sniffs and wipes away the few tears that have fallen. He wishes he could stop now and rest until it heals, but the bleeding hasn’t stopped, and he doesn’t know why. He’s alone. <em>God</em>, he can’t believe he let himself be alone. Nevertheless, he keeps moving, propping himself down against the side of the bathtub while he spends the next few minutes attempting to thread a needle.</p><p>His sobs echo against the tiled floor as he nestles the needle through his skin. The pain isn’t as sharp as the wound itself, but it’s jarring. It travels up his spine in harsh spasms, and his knuckles are stretched tight.</p><p>“C’mon, Peter,” he assures himself, releasing a shaky breath. “C’mon. You can do this.”</p><p>He crosses the thread and lets out a cry. He wants to stop but he can’t. So, he wipes the wound free of any blood that seeped out and carries on.</p><p>Peter’s vision blurs again, and this time, his head slumps down, hitting the side of the porcelain tub hard. It’s the sound of the impact that wakes him. His chest tightens and his jaw clenches, and yet, he still carries on.</p><p>“Stay awake,” he tells himself. “Please. Just stay—stay awake.”</p><p>The needle enters his skin again, and Peter’s scream is trapped in his throat. He bites his lip until that pain distracts him from the worst pain of all.</p><p>After finishing off the last loop, he spends the next minute trying to knot the thread. He can’t see his fingers, and the anxiety coursing through him prevents any steady movement. For all he knows, he might have sewed his suit to his skin. He reaches behind him for the bathtub faucet and wets the washcloth again.</p><p>A pained gasp fills the room. Peter uncaps the newly purchased bottle of isopropyl alcohol and smothers the cloth in it before setting it down on his skin. The next thing he hears is his scream, but then it’s gone. The noise, the pain, <em>everything</em>.</p><p>Peter’s shoulders collapse, and his lungs feel heavy with each breath. He’s done. He’s alone. And he’s so tired.</p><p>He closes his eyes and sinks back down against the tub. He doesn’t feel anything anymore.</p><p> </p><p>His body is hot. Every inch of skin burns and his body seizes with chills. When Peter opens his eyes, he’s still against the bathtub. He’s still sat on the floor, face up toward the bright fluorescents of his bathroom in Queens, and he can hardly move. The previously sewn wound is swollen and red.</p><p>“No, no,” he mumbles breathily. “Shit. <em>No</em>.”</p><p>Peter fumbles for his mask and stretches it over his head. The HUD comes to life.</p><p>“Karen,” he says. “What—what’s happening to me? Is it—what is it?”</p><p><em>“Peter, you’re running a fever of 102 degrees Fahrenheit,” </em>the AI tells him.</p><p>Peter closes his eyes and shakes his head. “No, no. I—I don’t wanna—it can’t be—is it—?”</p><p>
  <em>“Your wound must be infected.”</em>
</p><p>“Shit.”</p><p>He pushes himself up to his feet after that, tightly gripping the sides of the tub until his fingers grind into the porcelain. He doesn’t waste a minute as he makes his way toward his bedroom, once again crawling through the window without caring about the pain. There are no more options, no more second chances for Peter to hold back on asking for help. He <em>needs</em> help. He can’t think about the pain.</p><p>“Hospital. Karen. I gotta—lead me to the—”</p><p><em>“I’m setting a course to the nearest Emergency Room,” </em>she assures. <em>“Would you like me to contact any of your—”</em></p><p>Peter launches a string of web down the block. “Fine, <em>fine, </em>I don’t care,” he says, wincing once he feels the air on the few inches of exposed skin.</p><p>Karen doesn’t speak up again as Peter continues swinging. He can handle it now, and he’s thankful, but the fever scorches his muscles with every tug and release. The AI’s directions are the only things navigating him throughout the empty streets—there’s not a single thought in Peter’s head.</p><p>He’s not sure how much time has passed. Nothing makes sense to him anymore, but once he sees the beckoning lights of the Emergency Room sign, he’s glad he still has some ounce of consciousness left. Peter lands down on the concrete harshly, stumbling toward the automatic doors while his fingers dig crescents into his side.</p><p>All eyes are on him as he walks inside. A gasp leaves his masked lips, and then his knees buckle. He doesn’t feel anything. He doesn’t see anything either. But he can hear voices, soft and loud, surrounding him. After that, he can no longer hear anything either.</p><p> </p><p>Peter is awoken, not by a hot fever or a wave of nausea flooding his senses, but by a hand pressed against his shoulder. It’s firm and comforting. He feels like he owes that hand his life.</p><p>“You still alive in there, kiddo?” asks a voice, cool and low but not something he expected to hear. The hand presses down a bit harder against his shoulder.</p><p>It takes Peter a few moments to fully gather his bearings, eyes peeking open to glance at every object in sight. All he can see is a large curtain draped around his bed and a tube taped against his skin. When he looks to his left, Tony is there, and the pressure on his shoulder leaves.</p><p>Tony smiles warmly. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”</p><p>“‘S not a good land,” Peter mumbles.</p><p>“No, it really isn’t,” the man says, eyes softening before his brows soon furrow. “How’s it feel?”</p><p>Peter thinks about Tony’s words. On instinct, a dull ache radiates throughout his torso, and the epicenter feels red hot against his hospital gown. The last thing Peter remembers is air rushing against him as he swung through the night—back then, he had been wearing the suit.</p><p>He runs his fingers along his dressed wound as all of the memories come flooding back. He was stupid, and he had been alone. But now he isn’t, and he’s unmasked.</p><p>“Like I got stabbed,” Peter answers, and his words slur as they pass through his lips.</p><p>Tony manages a small laugh. “Well, ya did.” And then his expression turns cold. “What were you thinking? You didn’t even think to call me? You could have died, y’know. You’re real damn lucky you managed to say alive long enough to get your ass some help. You can’t just—you can’t just do that. You have to—” He rolls his left wrist and sighs. “You have to think, Pete.”</p><p>Peter can’t register Tony’s words. He can only visualize them floating through the air like the smoke from a caterpillar, slowly stinging his eyes while he thinks about mad tea parties and vanishing cats. His brain is nothing but a cloud.</p><p>“Mush,” he mumbles. “I feel like mush.”</p><p>Tony’s composure falters, and his lips quirk into a faint smile again. “You’re hopped up, kid. Your homemade stitches, by the way—totally done wrong. We’ve got a lot to teach you. Now, you have two options—” He holds up a tiny cup of pudding and another cup of JELL-O. “Pick your poison. And you can’t have both because I’m starving.”</p><p>Peter twists his lips and points at the pudding.</p><p>“Excellent choice, young padawan,” Tony says, tossing over the pudding along with a spoon. “You sure you can handle it, or do you need help with that too?”</p><p>“Ha-ha.” Peter fiddles with the foil lid, but it doesn’t budge. He frowns. “Maybe.”</p><p>“You sure you’re fifteen?” Tony asks as he reaches over and peels back the lid for him. “You haven’t been lying to me this entire time, right? You’re not secretly like, ten years old?”</p><p>“I’m nine.”</p><p>Tony raises a brow. “Knew it.”</p><p>Peter looks down at the pudding in his hands, and he’s overwhelmed. Overwhelmed at the fading memories of the past twenty-four hours. Overwhelmed at the feeling that he’ll never be able to escape being a disappointment. He will always feel like a disappointment.</p><p>“Are you mad at me?” he asks Tony.</p><p>A moment of silence passes, and Peter looks over at the man with sad eyes.</p><p>“No, Pete,” Tony says. “Never. Okay? Don’t—I don’t want you to feel like that. I’m sorry that you feel like that. How I feel isn’t important right now. What is important is that you’re not dead—you’re very much alive with a disgusting-looking infection that nearly killed you. I’m not mad, kid, I’m just relieved.”</p><p>“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” Peter mutters. “I just—I wanted to handle it myself. I’m sorry.”</p><p>Tony’s hand returns to his shoulder, and for a second, it seems like the conversation will fade with <em>it’s okay </em>and <em>get some rest</em>. But then he says, “yeah, you’re definitely gonna regret that in a few days. You gonna finish that pudding?”</p><p>Peter turns his body away from Tony and whines. “No. Get your own, old man.”</p><p>“Okay, now you <em>want</em> me to get mad.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>